


They Dance

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: rounds_of_kink, Incest, M/M, Pre-Series, Pretending to Be Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 17:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a joke or a trick or a misunderstanding. A twisted bond, a fucked up display of mutual trust, a weird exhibit of unusual affection. It’s a cautious dancing around a subject that they can’t quite directly tackle. (Pre-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by callmetofu: Pretending to be gay, kissing against a wall, the sentence “We are still pretending, right?”

It’s a joke or a trick or a misunderstanding. A twisted bond, a fucked up display of mutual trust, a weird exhibit of unusual affection. It’s a cautious dancing around a subject that they can’t quite directly tackle. One step forward, one step back, two steps to the side. A few times it happened without their own volition, other times they just went along with it, and on a few special occasions they actively pretended.

* * *

The first time, Lincoln lost a stupid bet to Derek. It’s classic: Lincoln screws up and Michael ends up looking like a fool because he’s dragged into his brother’s mess. Not that Lincoln is in a better place right now, to be fair.

Lincoln chokes on his beer when Derek pronounces the penalty for the lost bet. But he quickly regains his composure and points out with a leer, “Pretending to be gay? I’d rather watch Vee faking this.” Derek’s girlfriend – Betty, Patty, Cathy, whatever – rolls her eyes; Veronica retaliates with a kick of a sharp pointed shoe in his shin and the stern reminder that _she_ didn’t lose no dumb bet.

Anyway a bet is a bet. So Lincoln grabs Michael by the arm and pulls him, urging him to scoot on the padded seat of the dim bar until he’s pressed against Lincoln’s side.

“Wow, wait a sec. Why me?” Michael protests.

“There’s no way I touch this asshole with a ten-foot pole,” he points an accusatory forefinger at Derek, “so you’re all that’s left in the guy department, bro.”

Very soon, Michael is half sitting on Lincoln’s lap, an arm is loosely wrapped around his waist in a gesture so natural that it’s actually a bit unsettling. Not unpleasant, just disconcerting. He drinks scotch from his brother’s glass because he’s not yet entitled to order alcohol himself, he feels warm and fuzzy and starts to enjoy the small circles Lincoln’s free hand works up and down his upper arm. He even tilts his head, reluctantly at first but more obligingly then, and chuckles when Lincoln messily kisses his earlobe. Lincoln is good, really good at it, and probably forgets he’s supposed to act because he actually kisses, softly bites and soothed the flesh with wet lips. With a suppressed groan, Michael slackens against him, his head lolling back; he gets cozy, a smidge too much, and he gradually slides off Lincoln’s lap until he has to wriggle his butt to straighten up. Lincoln holds him tighter and hauls him up. Nobody but Michael can hear him whispering, “Cocktease,” in a low, playful tone. Eyes half-closed and with a small devious smile, Michael writhes a bit more, just to live up to his newly acquired bad reputation.

People are watching, with more or less tact, but they’re watching: people who know them watch and sneer or roll their eyes; people who don’t know them stare and gossip or judge. Figures. The bar is not what Michael would call gay friendly, he’s almost surprised that nobody has yet picked a fight. Picking a fight was probably what Derek had in mind but of course, considering his and Lincoln’s frames, people would think twice about it.

Michael smirks; scotch isn’t his usual poison and he’s just tipsy enough not to care and to just settle more comfortably on his brother’s lap. They pretend to make out, although he’ll acknowledge that when hands skim over muscles and mouths kiss skin, the difference between pretense and authenticity is pretty thin and all in the intent. On the other side of the table, Veronica pretends she’s not exasperated by the stupidity of their games. Derek’s girlfriend pretends she’s not slightly uncomfortable. Lincoln pretends the whole thing doesn’t get to him, and Michael pretends he hasn’t noticed that Lincoln is suspiciously half-hard under his buttocks. Derek, blissfully unaware of what’s going on, just laughs at them, at the silly joke, at the customers who cast glances towards them or throw snide comments when passing by.

On the way back to their apartment, the chill air of the night clears their thoughts, making the whole evening look like a crazy, smoky dream. They tacitly decide that it’s better not to talk about the absurd penalty Derek forced on Linc and to just pretend that nothing happened.

* * *

The second time, it’s an honest mistake made with the candid desire to make someone happy. Michael likes to make people happy, he just happens to resort to unusual methods sometimes.

He has all but dragged Lincoln to the museum as some sort of birthday gift, Michael’s birthday gift, evidently – The Science Museum, with things and stuff and blueprints, not even a real museum according to Linc’s standards, one with paintings and statues. Anyway, a woman in one of the rooms looks at them with a fond smile and tells them they’re too adorable: she wishes her so-gay-best friend was that comfortable with his sexuality. Lincoln’s hand, that was carelessly lying on Michael’s shoulder, flies away at lightening speed as if he’s suddenly been scorched by the familiar, innocent contact. Michael catches it and forced it into the back pocket of his pants. He can’t see Lincoln but he knows that his brother glares at him. He also pinches his ass painfully through the heavy fabric of his jeans; Michael twitches under the assault and wraps his arm around Lincoln’s waist, forcefully bringing them closer.

“Thank you,” he simply tells the woman. He flashes this broad and bright smile that he uses scarcely but which nine out of ten times gets him anything he wants; Lincoln rolls his eyes at the displaying of charm.

“You’re gonna get us arrested,” he grumbles through his teeth when they stop in front of a blueprint. They stand for a while and Lincoln stares at the drawing, dumbfounded; he couldn’t, for the sake his life, tell what the thing allegedly represents.

“I have a newsflash for you. Homosexuality isn’t illegal.”

“It is if...” He stops right in his tracks because he really doesn’t want to use the word ‘brother’ in this kind of phrase. “This is sick. And I’m not gay.”

“You don’t need to tell me: this new girlfriend of yours is very vocal. I’m looking forward to going back to my dorm just so I can, you know, sleep at night.” He speaks in this formal, uptight tone that makes Lincoln want to smack him in the head, all the while shamelessly pressing himself against his brother’s flank.

“You’re gonna get us arrested for public indecency,” Lincoln insists crankily. This is a bad afternoon: passing for being queer and watching weird drawings and old objects is not his definition of a fun day.

“And that would be something new on your criminal record?”

They keep on staring at the blueprint; Lincoln finally gives in and asks what the damn stuff under its protective glass is supposed to mean. He pretends he’s forgotten that his hand is still in Michael’s back pocket, his fingers lightly pressing into the buttock. Michael pretends he doesn’t tell him to take it off because the woman is still watching them with a smile.

* * *

The third time, it’s because some guy relentlessly hits on Lincoln at a friend of a friend’s party. Lincoln is annoyed and Michael is annoyed that his brother is annoyed because then, things usually don’t end up without some collateral damage. He sneaks up between them, making both of them jump with surprise, and possessively hooks a finger into Lincoln’s belt loop. Lincoln blinks, lowers his eyes to the finger but doesn’t actually try to get free or even move. Since they pretended once a as joke, they can pretend once more to make the guy fuck off, right?

Thing is, the guy doesn’t fuck off: he lets them know, not very subtly, that he wouldn’t mind sharing. Michael frowns, answers that “We do mind,” and he hauls Lincoln on the small dance floor before things get worse. Lincoln has this _are-you-fucking-kidding-me?_ look on his face but with a small exasperated sigh, he complies. He tries to lead, Michael tries to lead, they awkwardly bump into each other and Lincoln is the one who finally lets go. Not because he likes it or wants it but because he knows that he has a control freak of a brother.

“I think I could have stood up for myself,” he remarks sarcastically.

“It’s precisely what I was afraid of. Let’s not turn the party into a general fight, all right?”

“It was a dumb idea.”

“He let go.”

“He didn’t let go. He’s ogling my ass.”

Michael opens his mouth to speak – Lincoln _knows_ that he’s going to ask him if he has eyes behind his head that allowed him to notice the so-called ogling – but closes it without actually saying a word. His hands fall from Lincoln’s waist and cup his butt; Lincoln would almost bet his life on the fact that they lightly squeeze it.

“There,” Michael smirks. “He can’t see it anymore. Feel better?”

He has to ponder the question for so long that he feels like his mind will whirl indefinitely and he gives up on finding an answer. This, by the way, was probably what Michael was aiming for. They sway slowly for a while in the middle of the guests, not quite dancing but not still either, eliciting amused smiles and surprised looks as well as a few glares. Finally, Michael lifts his head and, gripping Lincoln more firmly – no doubt about the squeezing, now – he moves and pushes, forcing his brother to step backwards. He dances him towards the wall, in a corner of the room, and pins him there. Shifting vaguely, not in rhythm with the music but with whatever tune that’s playing in his freakish brain, he presses their hips together. Lincoln can’t see his face in the dark, can’t tell if he’s still pretending or joking or getting even with him for that time in the bar, so he just asks him what the hell he’s doing. Because Lincoln is a straight forward dude and the best way to have an answer is to ask the question. Well, maybe not always with Michael, but asking is still the first thing to do.

“I’m strengthening the illusion,” Michael replies. Then he proceeds to nuzzle Lincoln’s neck and kiss the hollow of his throat. Lincoln can see the fucking horny pursuer on the other side of the room a few feet away, staring at them, and he closes his eyes to take him out of this picture.

“We are still pretending, right?” he says. His throat moves when he speaks and Michael’s lips bump against it: he suddenly realizes that they’re _this_ close.

“Yes, of course.”

Michael is careful and thorough in his playing along with the sham – Michael-thorough – because he uses his tongue and teeth to lavish whatever expanse of flesh he can access, leaving small marks and goose-bumps on Lincoln’s skin. Really, nobody could tell he’s faking it. It certainly doesn’t feel like faking to Lincoln, who rests the back of his skull against the wall and cradles Michael’s head between his hands, pressing his brother’s face into the crook of his neck. The shivers that run down his spine are real, but they don’t mean anything at all. They’re just an automatic physical response to a stimulus. God knows that along the years, Lincoln has had quite a few automatic physical responses. If his mind wasn’t that clouded by the current events, he would remember that some of those led him straight into trouble.

By the time they part, the guy is long gone. Both of them are breathing hard, almost in each other’s face. Lincoln pretends that if he doesn’t really mind, it’s because he had too much pot tonight and his thoughts are fuzzy; he’d rather disregard the fact that he barely smoked anything. Michael pretends that it was acting and delving into his character – Actor’s Studio kind of stuff, one might say – and that he just got caught up in it.

* * *

The fourth time, it’s because there’s this girl who thinks that “It’s so hot!” when Lincoln coyly divulges that he’s never really done it with a woman. Michael can’t help it: his beer goes down the wrong way, his usual equanimity regarding his brother’s foolish ideas ravished by the most recent one. A coughing fit seizes him and he sputters and tries to catch his breath hard enough for tears to form under his eyelids. Lincoln soothingly pats his back while confessing to the girl that he would like so much to try at least once. Just to know how it feels.

He figured out that, since the notion brought out such a fond reaction from the woman at the museum, it can probably serve his own interests in a slightly different, funnier way. Right?

“Since when do you need this kind of shitty ploy?” Michael asks when the girl goes to the bathroom. Lincoln swaggers a bit and smiles smugly. Michael mutters under his breath, but he humors him, he dutifully plays along and they keep on pretending. Just a bit of inappropriate touching, nothing overdone, nothing they haven’t done before: a few brushes of hands, some squeezes of waist and knee, a mouth trailing in a collar. The girl watches them with fascination, a mixture of arousal and indecisiveness that she doesn’t bother to hide.

There’s a peck on the mouth, and this is new, though: a brief press of lips on lips, a hint of moistness, the burning tang of alcohol. Or maybe the burning comes from the idea of Lincoln stealing him an imitation of kiss. They’ve never been here before, and Michael blinks at his brother, who shrugs an apology. _Just got carried away a bit. Won’t do it again. Stop being so uptight._ Michael hesitates between licking his lips and wiping them on the back of his hand; he just takes a long gulp of beer. He feels as if he has just swallowed Lincoln’s taste, swallowed a bit of Lincoln himself. It’s a bad idea. Worse than bad, it’s a wrong idea.

Lincoln ends up in bed with the girl, Michael ends up in his room with his frustration. He has to listen to Lincoln’s appreciative grunts and to the girl’s soft moans, and for a few moments, he’s not sure what the frustration is actually about. He shifts in his bed, clutches the sheet and very carefully pushes this idea away. He won’t go there.

She leaves when it’s not night anymore but not quite morning yet; this is usually what they do, leave before dawn. Before she gets out, though, she enters Michael’s room and stops by his bed. She bends forward and tells softly into his ear, “He loves you, no matter what.” Now, Michael feels crappy about the charade and the lies, still frustrated as hell and totally puzzled by the statement. He rolls on his stomach and angrily buries his head in his pillow.

Lincoln pretends that he didn’t leave the door open on purpose. Michael pretends that it didn’t cause him a combination of arousal and exasperation.

* * *

The fifth time, it’s just because. They have been playing their little game for several hours for the benefice of a small and captive, although not always friendly, audience and this time, when they get out of the bar, there’s no cold and crisp air to greet them and clear their heads; just the lukewarm and slightly moist July atmosphere. When Michael awkwardly stumbles, dizzy with beer, noise and pretense, he grabs Lincoln’s shoulder to catch himself and doesn’t release it. He leans into his brother and the lingering touch is just a bit more that Lincoln can handle.

Casting a quick glance around them, he snatches him by the belt of his pants, whirls him around so fast that Michael’s head spins and the street surrounding them becomes blurry, and drags him into a small alley, only a few feet away from the bar. There, he pushes him into the wall and Michael bounces against it because Lincoln can be pretty rough when he gets impatient. A hand planted in the middle of his chest when Michael instinctively fights back and tries to free himself, the other one catching his chin, and Lincoln all but shoves him against the irregular red bricks. Both of them are a bit drunk, not the kind of drunkenness that will make them forget everything the next day, but the kind that gives them the nerve to do something they shouldn’t do and wouldn’t have done otherwise. This is probably why Lincoln doesn’t think twice before kissing him on the mouth, and for once Michael doesn’t think at all when he parts his lips.

The sensation is shocking, it’s nothing like the peck they once exchanged. Michael’s lips are full and supple, and they willingly open beneath his. For a split second he feels like just taking advantage of that and plunging into his mouth; he has to restrain himself. He kisses him leisurely, carefully, no tongue, just lips on lips, impatience and harshness forgotten or, at least, controlled. He wants this to be slow and smooth, he wants to hear Michael pant and plead, he wants to feel Michael gasp for air and grind against him. He wants to get even for this time at the party... 

“The guy kept staring at you,” Michael explains breathlessly when Lincoln demands to know what the hell he was thinking about that night. “It pissed me off.”

“That your dumb idea failed in the first place or that he stared?” He gets no answer, only a defiant look that can be interpreted either way. “You put up quite a show, you know?”

... and he wants retribution for having been unable to take Michael off his mind while sleeping with this girl a while ago. He can’t bring himself to admit that, though, so he just resumes kissing him. Michael lifts his arms above his head, grasps the rough bricks and holds onto them, his back arching and his belly rubbing against Lincoln’s.

They kiss for what seems an eternity to Lincoln, Michael moving sinuously between him and the wall. He seems to be nothing but warmth and liquid against Lincoln, who thinks that maybe his brother just won’t manage to keep standing. He firmly plants his hands on each side of Michael’s body, slides a knee between his legs and at some point, it looks like the only things keeping Michael here and on his feet are said hands and knee and the fact that he’s gripping the wall above his head.

When Lincoln finally breaks the kiss and lifts his head to look him in the eyes, he finds them impossibly wide and almost black with desire, the dilated pupils eating the blue in them. He wonders what exactly he has just started and mumbles without conviction, “I don’t think we’re still pretending,” because it really, really doesn’t feel like pretending anymore. No way to make it up, right now.

Michael shrugs and smiles at him. “Linc...” He shifts and grinds himself against Lincoln and, because he doesn’t meet enough resistance, he drops his hands to Lincoln’s butt and presses his brother into him, pleading for him to move. Lincoln complies helpfully, rolls his hips, works them in small circles, pushing Michael harder into the wall with each thrust, making him choke and buck. He likes that; he likes the feeling of the muscles hardening and rolling under his own and he likes that Michael gasps and clings to him. He tries to say something and Lincoln playfully silences him with a kiss, gently nipping Michael’s lips, darting his tongue between them to lick his teeth and the inside of his mouth. They move along a couple of times, Michael’s breathing becoming harsher, his movements more frantic, before he tenses and squeezes Lincoln so hard it’s almost painful. Slowly, unhurriedly, he loosens in Lincoln’s arms and lets out a contented sigh.

Lincoln jumps at that, all of a sudden realizing what was going on. He catches him and almost forcefully holds him up. He may be slender, but he’s all lean muscles, heavier than he looks, and Lincoln revels in the weight in his arms. “Did you just...”

“Sorry,” he confesses sheepishly. He’s slightly flushed, his eyes still clouded with yearn, his expression awfully pleased with himself: he couldn’t look less sorry.

“Just like that?”

He sighs as an ultimate and late shudder shakes him. “I tried to warn you but you just wouldn’t...”

“Just like that?” Lincoln repeats, cutting off his explanations. He can’t quite pin down what exasperates him most: that Michael got himself off or that _he_ ’s been an unaware participant in the process and missed something. “How old are you?!”

“I’ll make up for it.”

“I don’t want you to...” He doesn’t finish his sentence. Primarily because it would be a lie. He wants. He wants so much. He wouldn’t have dragged them here if he didn’t want, would he? Secondly because Michael isn’t listening to him anyway: he pushes Lincoln backwards, until his back rests against the wall on the other side of the alley, and he sinks to his knees in front of him. It’s all done in a single, smooth and almost graceful gesture; Lincoln remembers how he was danced around a room not so long ago.

There were people, a lot of people in this room. There was a reason, good or bad that’s not the question, to pretend and play along.

He looks around them: there’s nobody here. Meaning there’s nobody to see and catch them and there’s nobody and no reason to pretend. They have no audience to appreciate or reprehend the exhibit. He doesn’t know if that comforts him or makes him freak out. “To who would we be pretending?” he asks, caught in his logic and not caring to elaborate.

“What?”

“There’s nobody here. To who would be we pretending?”

When Michael looks at him, a small smile curls the corner of his mouth. His face nestles between Lincoln’s thighs, his nose brushing the seam of his pants, and Lincoln is just aware enough to realize that, no matter the answer, he’ll roll with it at least for now. 

Michael trails his mouth up the rough fabric of Lincoln’s jeans and reassuringly murmurs, “To whoever you want”.

* * *

Ultimately, they stopped counting. But every now and then they still joke, play trick and pretend – or not: they keep on dancing.

-The End-


End file.
